Further On Up the Road
by lady scribe of avandell
Summary: It was on the third full day of shoveling and piling and dumping that she heard – at last – the sound of a rumbling engine as a car came to a stop in the gravel parking lot.


Title: Further On Up the Road

Characters: Ensemble (no pairing)

Rating: PG-13 for language, disturbing images, and character death

Word Count: 3782

Summary: It was on the third full day of shoveling and piling and dumping that she heard – at last – the sound of a rumbling engine as a car came to a stop in the gravel parking lot. She didn't look up, just continued in her task even as she heard the click-click-click of multiple guns cocked. "Shoot me," she said. "I've got no more reason to live. You can bury me in the pit with the rest of my life."

Notes: Written for the prompt given to me by quietrebel: _Dean and Jo, after the season 2 finale; prompts: trap, storm, broken glass, the line "Well, that was fun."_ Title is from Johnny Cash's "Further On (Up the Road)." Many thanks to the totally awesome rillaotvalley for the extensive beta.

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_Further On Up the Road_

She'd been trying to get in touch with Ash all morning, but the line had been busy every time she called. At last, the phone rang, and his voice came across the line. "What?" he snapped.

"God, Ash, you sound like you're real happy to hear from me," she answered, a smirk in her voice.

"Jo, hang up right now," her friend replied, and she realized there was panic in his voice.

"What? Ash? What's wrong?" He didn't answer for a long moment and she thought maybe he'd hung up on her. "Ash?"

"Jo, you listen to me, and you listen good. Get off the phone, get somewhere safe, and make sure you have salt lines across everything. Draw a devil's trap in your living room and sit in the middle of it if you have to, just stay—" And the line went dead.

"Ash? Ash?" Jo sighed in frustration as she hung up the phone, trying to ignore the shudder of fear creeping up her spine. The whole conversation had been out of character for Ash – even if she assumed that he was coming down from a high. She'd never heard him sound so scared. It was so weird she decided to try calling him back to see if she could talk some sense into him.

She redialed the number, and it rang five times before a tinny voice said, "We're sorry, the number you dialed is not available at this time. Please hang up and dial again. If you are hearing this for a second time, please contact your local telephone service or press one for more options. Thank you."

Jo slammed the phone down, trying to hold down the panic that was threatening to overtake her. She moved through her small apartment, pulling all of her weapons (guns, knives, a crossbow) out of their various hiding places and tossing them into a duffle bag. It was a two-day drive from Maine to Nebraska – if she hurried, she could get there in time to help. There was no way in hell she was sitting this out – whatever _this_ was.

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Thirty-one long hours later, Jo stood in front of what was left of the Roadhouse. The stench of charred flesh was on the breeze, and she had to suppress the bile in her throat as she sifted through the blackened remains of her childhood home, looking for signs of – _Of what?_ she asked herself. Signs that someone survived the fire? It wasn't likely, not with the entire building reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash and rubble. She shook her head. There were no survivors of this catastrophe – the only thing she could do was give the dead a proper burial.

She worked silently, diligently shoveling aside debris, trying not to think of what precisely she was tossing into the shallow pit she'd dug. She found Ash's watch, the mechanism stopped and likely broken; she pocketed it along with the remains of the rifle that once sat just beneath the bartop and the rusty horseshoe that used to hang above the door, the only things left of her family.

When it finally grew too dark to see what she was doing, Jo tossed the shovel into the back of her pick-up and drove back into town. She stopped at the first motel she found and asked for a room. The desk clerk gave her a wary look, and she vaguely wondered what she might look like to warrant the wide eyes of the girl. Jo probably stank of death and fire, and she knew her eyes were red-rimmed, though whether it was from the dust or the crying, she couldn't say. Nevertheless, the girl silently took the proffered credit card and gave her a room key.

Exhausted, Jo kicked off her boots and collapsed on the motel bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

The next morning, she drove back out to the Roadhouse to finish her job. Again, she toiled in silence, listening for the tell-tale sound of a car (hoping for the Impala, though she wouldn't admit it even to herself) or other intruder, come to take her far away from her home. She hadn't meant for this to happen when she left home, hadn't meant for the last thing she said to her mother to be, "Go to hell," as she walked out the door. For all she knew, that's exactly what her mother had done.

She followed this routine for another two days, barely stopping to eat or drink, ignoring the ache in her protesting muscles as she shoveled piles of cinders and charcoal into the back of her truck and carted them to the make-shift grave on the other side of the windbreak.

It was on the third full day of shoveling and piling and dumping that she heard – at last – the sound of a rumbling engine as a car came to a stop in the gravel parking lot. She didn't look up, just continued in her task even as she heard the _click-click-click_ of multiple guns cocked. "Shoot me," she said, her voice as weary as the rest of her as she leaned against her shovel. "I've got no more reason to live. You can bury me in the pit with the rest of my life."

"Bobby, you got your flask?" said a familiar voice, and Jo finally turned to look at who had arrived.

"Mom?" she whispered, her entire body suddenly weak. "Is it really you?" Ellen nodded, and Jo's vision swam as she fell to the ground.

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When she came to, she was lying in a motel bed, scratchy sheets pulled up to her shoulders. Her mom wasn't there, but Dean was, and he sat in a chair by the bed with a rifle in his hands. She eyed the gun and then looked at him.

He shrugged and set it aside. "Sorry. Can't be too careful these days."

She nodded. "I know," she rasped, then coughed and tried again. "Can I get some water?"

"Yeah, sure." He poured water from a silver flask into a plastic cup and handed it to her. "Bobby's," he said by way of explanation when she raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh." She drank it quietly, letting it soothe her aching throat and watching him as he watched her. "What?"

"Nothing. Don't drink it too fast; you'll make yourself sick. You did pass out on us."

Jo rolled her eyes but complied with his wishes and took smaller sips. "Where's everybody else?"

"Finishing the job you started." He glanced at the clock. It was almost eight; she'd been sleeping for most of the day. "They should be back soon." He paused. "The Roadhouse… Do you know what happened?"

She shook her head. "Something bad. Ash called me, I guess almost a week ago, completely panicked. Told me to draw a devil's trap in my living room and stay there. The line was cut while he was still talking. I drove for two days straight and when I arrived, the place was nothing but cinders." She looked up at him expectantly. "Do i you /i know what happened?"

He shrugged a little. "Bobby and I got there just a few hours after… It was barely smoldering. Whatever hit it, it was quick. Relatively painless. A blessing, I guess, considering."

"Yeah." They fell into silence, and then Jo said quietly, "You never called."

Dean sighed. "No, I didn't."

"I didn't expect you to."

He grunted, and they would have gone back to uneasy silence again, but there was a sharp rap on the motel door. "That'd be the others," he said, rising and opening the door.

Sam and Bobby walked in, both looking worn out. Jo noticed Sam walked stiffly, his eyes dropping to his feet when he saw her. And behind them was her mom, whose face broke into a smile when she saw Jo. She began to move toward the bed when Bobby stopped her. "She clean?" he asked Dean gruffly. Jo frowned at Bobby's question – what did he mean by that? – but Dean nodded, and Bobby dropped his arm, allowing Ellen by.

She rushed to sit on the bed and put her arms around Jo. "Thank God," she murmured. "Thank God. I thought I'd lost you forever."

Jo wrapped her own arms around her mother and whispered, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left."

"It's all right, baby," Ellen said, pulling back and brushing hair out of Jo's eyes. "It's all right."

Bobby coughed behind them. "We should all get rooms for the night," he said. Ellen nodded, but didn't take her eyes off Jo's face.

"Thanks, Bobby," Ellen murmured as the three men shuffled out the door. When it clicked shut, she asked Jo, "You've been alright?"

"Yeah." Jo smiled a little. "I guess you probably won't be getting my postcard from Maine. I was living in Bangor on the coast. It's a nice place. I think you'd like it."

"Were you hunting there?" Ellen's voice was even, but Jo could still hear the tell-tale worry in it.

"No, not really. I mean, I watched for anything weird, but it was pretty quiet."

Ellen nodded and then yawned. "I'm sorry. I'm exhausted. We finished the work you were doing."

"Yeah, Dean told me." She paused. "Mom? What happened there? What's been going on? How'd you get out?"

"Ash sent me to get pretzels," she said with a choked laugh. "I never thought those stupid things would save my life." Ellen shook her head. "We'll talk about it more tomorrow, baby. For now, let's get some rest."

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It was late – almost noon – when Jo awoke the next day. She was annoyed that they had let her sleep so long, but she had to admit that it felt wonderful rest. The others were making plans to head to Bobby's home in Deadwood, choosing to make the scrapyard a base for their work. They decided it would be best to take Bobby's truck and the Impala, leaving Jo's pick-up in Nebraska since it was the least-conspicuous of the three. Bobby would come back for it later in the week.

They were loading their stuff when Sam stopped Jo. "Can we talk?"

"Sure, Sam. What's up?" She tossed her bag into the car and walked back to the motel room to make sure she'd grabbed everything.

He shrugged uncomfortably, following her. "I wanted to apologize."

Jo frowned. "Apologize for what?"

"Duluth."

Jo turned from where she was scanning the room and raised her eyebrows at him. "Duluth? Sam, you don't need to apologize. You were possessed. There's nothing you could have done to stop it."

"I could have tried harder."

"Sam." She stopped in the doorway and looked up at him; he backed away, and she moved closer. "It wasn't your fault then, it isn't your fault now. There's no need to apologize for something you couldn't control. We both survived, and other than a little rope burn on my wrists, you didn't hurt me."

"But Jo, the things I – it – said, about your father—how are we supposed to—"

She cut him off. "Demons lie, Sam. We both know that. And even if it was true, it's over. There's not a lot either of us can do about it." She lifted his chin with her hand, forcing him to look at her. "It's okay." She smiled. "Now come on, Dean's giving us a funny look; let's make him think we're up to something." She leaned upward and kissed his cheek, grinning at the baffled look on his face.

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Jo rode with the boys, stretching out in the back seat.

"So," she said after they had started down the road. "Do you guys wanna tell me what happened this week? All I know is that Ash was in a panic, but I don't even know why."

The two of them looked at each other, obviously communicating in that infuriating silent language of theirs. And then Dean began to speak. "Sam—" he gulped, "—was kidnapped by the Yellow-Eyed Demon that killed our mom. Ash was helping me look for him when he got a hit on his tracking system. He called me, said it didn't lead to Sam, but it might help us find him. He didn't say exactly what he'd found – said it wasn't safe – and by the time Bobby and I got to the Roadhouse… Well, you saw it." He took a deep breath and then continued. "We didn't have any more leads, had no idea where to start searching, and then I got hit with a vision."

Jo blinked. "A vision? But, Dean, you're not—"

"Psychic? I know."

"It was Andy Gallagher," Sam explained. "One of the other psychics – the one who could make you do things just by telling you to do them. He'd been working on his power and had figured out how to do it without speaking. He projected it somehow to Dean, showed him where we were."

"But why was Andy with you?"

"The demon had plans for us. Wanted one of us to become the leader of his army. We still don't know exactly what It meant to do with us." Sam quickly explained what had happened to him and the others in Cold Oak, ending with Dean and Bobby finding him alone. Dean gave Sam a stern look, and Jo wondered what it meant, but didn't ask because Dean was telling her about what came next.

"After we got Sam patched up, we went back to Bobby's. We were trying to figure out where to go next when your mom showed up. She'd gone into town when Ash called and told her to look in the safe. When she got back to the Roadhouse…" He trailed off and then picked up again, "She was able to find the safe and get what Ash had stored in it. It was a map of Wyoming with five X marks on it. When we connected the dots, it made a one-hundred square mile devil's trap."

"Samuel Colt had built a church at each point, with railroads connecting each one," Sam said, turning in his seat to look at Jo. "Dead center, there was an old cowboy cemetery."

"We beat Jake to it," Dean said with a grim smile Jo could barely see in the rearview. "He almost got the better of us, though. He had the Colt – the gun that could kill anything, including demons. It was the key, and he opened the gate."

"Then how—did you—what happened?"

"Bobby and your mom closed it," Sam answered.

"And we killed the Demon," Dean said softly.

"But there were demons that got through the gate," Sam said. "Probably a good two hundred of them, maybe more. And now? Well, we're gonna need all the hunters we can find."

The rest of the drive was hushed, even the thrumming bass muted in the oppressive quiet. Something big had happened to them, Jo knew - bigger than what they'd already admitted. She would ask them about it later; for now, the silence in the front seat told her enough.

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It was mid-afternoon when they pulled into Bobby's yard. Jo had never visited the place before – she'd heard about it, of course, since hunters talked and drunk hunters talked more – but she was unsurprised to see it resembled the Roadhouse. Or would have, had the Roadhouse been a salvage yard instead of a bar.

Inside the house was far more surprising than the outside. Every room had shelves upon shelves of books – mostly old tomes on history or religion or demonology, but there were a fair amount of novels lining the shelves as well. Jo made a note to borrow a couple if she had the chance. She followed Bobby through the claustrophobic maze of literature in the hallway, up the stairs (with books stacked under the railing), and into a small bedroom overlooking the salvage yard.

"Make yourself at home," Bobby said with a slight shrug of his shoulders and a tug on his hat. "Bathroom's next door – you'll be sharing it with the boys, sorry. They're sharing the room across the hall. Clean towels are in the closet just outside. Your mother's room is downstairs and to the left of the kitchen."

Jo nodded. "Thanks, Bobby," she said over her shoulder as he headed out the door. She tossed her bags to the floor at the foot of the bed, not bothering to unpack anything – after all, she didn't know how long it would be before they started hunting down the demons that had escaped. She flopped on the bed and let out a long sigh.

"You're up here, too?" said a voice, and Jo turned to see Sam standing in the doorway.

"Looks that way."

"Great," muttered Dean from behind Sam, the green duffle over his shoulder the only part of him visible. "Guess we'll have to clean up the bathroom." Jo had to bite back a laugh at the face Sam made. "What are you doing, Sam?" snapped Dean's disembodied voice.

"Nothing, _Dean_."

Jo snorted as the younger Winchester crossed his eyes.

"Whatever. I'm going to go make dinner," Dean announced just as Sam moved out of the way so he could see into the room.

Jo sat up at that news. "_You're_ making dinner?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "I do know how to cook."

"Macaroni and cereal," Sam muttered with a smirk.

Dean hit him over the head. "I can cook more than that, moron." He turned to Jo. "We're having chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy, if you're curious. Oh, and rolls, too."

She blinked at him. "Wow, Dean. That's impressive. Do you want some help fixing it?"

He snorted derisively. "No." And with that, he shoved the duffle into Sam's hands and was off, his boots thudding on the stairs as he went.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"What's going on with Dean?"

Sam shrugged. "I dunno. He's been insisting on cooking everything since we got here. He said something about nobody else in this place being able to fix a decent meal and that he has to do everything himself."

"No, Sam—I mean, he's acting _weird_. It's not just the cooking thing, it's everything. He's different." She studied his face. "What happened in Wyoming, Sam? I know you left something out."

He frowned, and Jo couldn't decide if it was because he didn't know or he didn't want to tell. "You'll have to ask him that," he said after a long pause.

She rolled her eyes. "Can't you just tell me and save me the hassle of forcing him to sit still long enough for me to ask him?"

He shrugged uncomfortably and grimaced. "Sorry, but I can't."

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She cornered Dean after supper. He was on the back porch, sipping his beer and watching the sun set over the Black Hills. "Dinner was good, Dean," she said. "The pie especially."

He shrugged. "Bobby had apples. So I made pie."

She laughed. "Well in any case, I haven't had a meal like that in – well, a long time."

He half-smiled at her. "You're welcome."

She came to stand next to him, scuffing her foot against the dusty porch. "What haven't you told me?" she asked.

His eyes flicked to her face and then back to the sunset. "What do you mean, Jo? We told you everything." His face was impassive – too impassive for it not to mean something.

"I'm not stupid, Dean. You've left something out. What is it?"

He clenched his jaw and looked away. "It's nothing."

"Like hell it's nothing," she snapped. "You're hiding something from me. What is it?"

He sagged and dropped to the ground, seating himself on the porch step. Jo sat beside him, waiting. "Sam died," he said softly.

"Died?" she repeated. "He was looking pretty alive at dinner to me."

"No. He was dead. Jake – he was Army, knew what he was doing when he stabbed Sam in the back. Severed his spinal chord. Nothing I could do." He shuddered and stared at his hands. Jo said nothing. "We—I… Bobby didn't catch him. It's a good thing. I would have killed the son of a bitch with my bare hands." The savagery in his voice startled her, but still she said nothing. Instead she laid a hand on his shoulder, rubbing lazy circles in his tense muscles. "Sam was dead, Jo," he whispered looking at her with doleful eyes.

"But, Dean, he's not—" She stopped as it all clicked into place. Sam i was /i dead, was no longer dead, was very much alive, in fact. Which meant either a miracle… or a curse. "Oh god," she gasped, a hand coming up to her mouth. "_Dean_?"

"I had to," he said. "I had no choice."

"What was the deal?" she asked quietly.

"One year." He laughed bitterly, staring across the yard. "Well, fifty-one weeks and a couple days now, I guess."

"That…" she searched for the right word, "…sucks."

He snorted. "That's putting it lightly."

"What if we can break it?"

"No," Dean barked, and she was surprised at his vehemence. "I'm not breaking my deal. It's not – it's not worth the consequences." He smiled, the line of his mouth grim. "It's not so bad, really," he told her. "I get one year. And Sam gets to live." He tossed a piece of gravel across the yard and looked at her. "Is it really that awful? I get one more year with my brother, doing what we do best, and at the end of the year, I'm done. I never have to worry about anything ever again, and he gets his life back afterward. It's a good deal. Everyone's a winner, all around."

_Except you_, Jo thought. Out loud she said, "So what are you going to do with your year?"

"I have a stack of napkins with the phone numbers of every waitress in every bar from here to Tucson. I'm sure I can think of something." He tossed his head and grinned.

Jo couldn't help herself; she laughed. "You let me know how that turns out, Dean Winchester."

"Don't tell him that, you'll only encourage him," said a voice from behind them. They both turned to see Sam stepping out the door. "He'll tell you every depraved moment of every exploit in graphic detail. You'll never hear the end of it."

Jo smiled. "You mean free porn? Awesome."

Both brothers blinked at her before Dean finally threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing throughout the yard.

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A/N: For the purposes of this story, I've placed Bobby's home in Deadwood, South Dakota. According to Super-Wiki, his truck's license plate is from Lawrence County; Deadwood is in Lawrence Co., and when I found out that Jim Beaver had been on the show Deadwood, well, I figured that was probably an in-joke on the show's part.

I've intentionally left the ending wide open. I may eventually come back to this story and write a companion piece (or two). I've got a couple ideas running about my head at the moment, but nothing concrete, so we'll see.


End file.
